


the taste, the flavor

by pageleaf



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fingerfucking, First Time, Hair-pulling, M/M, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Pre-OT3, Sexual Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 22:17:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11299959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pageleaf/pseuds/pageleaf
Summary: "I'm sorry, what?" Yuuri asks faintly. "You—you want me to—""I want you to fuck me," Yuri repeats, resolute.





	the taste, the flavor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Teuthida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teuthida/gifts).



> for Teuthida, who asked for yuri/yuuri and mentioned liking confident virgins who know exactly what they want, top!yuuri, and sexual humiliation. hopefully this delivers :)
> 
> the underage warning is because yuri p is 16 here
> 
> title is from "dangerous woman" by ariana grande

"I'm sorry, what?" Yuuri asks faintly. "You—you want me to—"

"I want you to fuck me," Yuri repeats, resolute. "I've never done it." He's been thinking about it for a while, since he realized that he was only going to get busier from here on out, and it would therefore only get harder for him to find someone he trusts enough. He doesn't want to have to cave and fuck another teenager who has no idea what they're doing, and he doesn't want to put it off, so it has to be now.

Besides, he's not ashamed anymore of being attracted to Yuuri. It's not a _crush_ (no matter _what_ Mila says), it's just a healthy appreciation of Yuuri's...thighs. And his ass. And his mouth, and his fucking eyelashes and—

"Why _me_?" Yuuri asks, voice high. "Wouldn't you rather Viktor, or someone else? Otabek, maybe?"

"Otabek's too busy to fly out to Russia just because I want to have sex," Yuri snaps. "And if you think I'm gonna give it up for that old bastard, you're an even bigger idiot than I thought."

"But Yurio..." Yuuri hesitates. "You don't even like me."

Yuri scowls. "So you have to be best friends with someone to have sex, now?"

Yuuri's eyes are wide and unhappy. "Maybe not everyone does, but I do?"

Yuri flinches.

Yuuri sighs. "Sorry, Yuri, I just...can't." He turns to go.

"Wait!" Yuri says, panicked. He grabs Yuuri's hand. "I..."

Yuuri stares back at him, apprehensive.

"I like you, okay?" Yuri admits. "I want you."

Yuuri bites his lip. "Don't pretend just because you know I'll say no otherwise."

"I'm not!" Yuri shouts, frustrated. "Jesus, have I ever lied to you?"

Yuuri blinks, and then smiles, faint but present. "No, you've never had a problem with honesty." He's making fun of Yuri, but it's better than him leaving. Yuri can work with this.

"I want it to be you," he says.

Yuuri looks at him, curious and intent. "Why me?" he says again quietly.

Yuri fidgets. "I trust you."

"You know I don't have much more experience than you, right?" Yuuri says frankly. "Other than Viktor, I've only been with a couple of people."

How does Yuri tell him that that's not it, at all? That experienced or not, there's something about Yuuri's patience and his quiet self-assurance, even when he's anxious or frightened, that makes Yuri sit up and take notice?

"That doesn't matter to me," Yuri says. "Unless you're scared?" he taunts, hoping to goad Yuuri into a response, even if it's a rejection.

Yuuri narrows his eyes, and then he smirks. "That's not gonna work," he says, and his tone is confident, teasing. "But you could try asking, again."

Yuri swallows. "I want you to have sex with me."

"That wasn't a question."

" _Will you_ have sex with me," Yuri says through gritted teeth.

Yuuri's glasses catch the light. " _Nicely_."

Fucking—

"Please," Yuri says, "will you fuck me, please?"

Yuuri smiles. "I'll think about it."

He jogs off, leaving Yuri standing in front of the entrance to the skating complex with his mouth open, dumbstruck and overheated.

 

When Yuri's phone rings that night at eleven, he takes one look at the caller and answers so quickly he almost drops his phone.

"Yeah?"

"If we're doing this," Yuuri says on the other line, and Yuri crows internally. Yuuri might be wearing his Serious Mentor Voice—the voice he uses whenever he thinks Yuri's in danger of injuring himself or doing something stupid—but he's basically agreeing. "If we're doing this," he's saying, "then I have some ground rules."

Yuri nods, before he remembers Yuuri can't see him. "Okay."

"I haven't told Viktor anything yet, but if we do this, I'm going to." Yuuri's tone brooks no argument. "We've each slept with friends before, and neither of us minds, but we always talk about it before."

Yuri thinks about it. He doesn't think Viktor will be weird or an asshole about it, so he's okay with it. Although it might make things a little awkward for a bit, he thinks ruefully. "That's fine."

"We always talk about it after, too," Yuuri says, his voice dark with meaning.

That's—oh. Yuri doesn't know how he feels about it, but he's forced to admit it might be...good. "That's fine too," he says, trying not to sound too breathless.

"One last thing," Yuuri says. "If either of us—me or you—has a moment of uncertainty about whether they want to continue, we stop and talk about it. Non-negotiable."

Yuri scowls. " _Fine_ ," he says shortly.

Yuuri ignores his tone. "Okay. Tomorrow's our off day, right?"

Yuri rolls his eyes. "Why do you think I asked you today?"

"Ah," Yuuri laughs sheepishly, "that's true," and the seriousness is gone from his voice. Yuri can picture him—the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, hand rubbing the back of his head, embarrassed.

It's definitely not cute, Yuri tells himself sternly. He doesn't want to see it again at all.

"Are we good, then?" he asks, brusque.

"Yeah, I guess," Yuuri replies, "unless you had anything to add? Any questions?"

"No," Yuri says. "Pick you up at 8?"

"What?"

"Katsudon," Yuri exhales, exasperated, "I'm not getting fucked for the first time in Viktor Nikiforov's apartment. I'll pick you up at 8?"

"O-oh," Yuuri says. "Oh, yeah, sure. That sounds fine. I'll see you then."

Like they're going out for dinner or something, Yuri thinks half-hysterically, as he hangs up. Something casual, friendly. Which, he supposes, is all this is.

Great. That's exactly what he wanted.

 

A month ago, Yuri moved out of Lilia's place and back to his old apartment, the one he'd bought as soon as he could afford it. Viktor's—well, Viktor-and-Yuuri's, now—apartment is a five minute walk from it, something he maintains is completely accidental and not at all intentional.

It's 7:45 when Yuri finds himself standing outside their apartment door, wondering if he should knock early and risk looking painfully eager, or loiter in the hall like a delinquent.

Before he can make up his mind, though, the door opens, and Viktor almost slams into him, walking backwards like the idiot he is.

"Oh, Yura!" he says, bright. "You're early! I was just about to go pick up food. Have you eaten?"

It's funny, Yuri marvels, how Viktor can be so normal at the most surprising times. He'll be possessive and petulant when Yuuri so much as brushes shoulders with someone else, but when Yuuri's actually _having sex_ with another person he's...the perfect host.

"I wasn't planning on staying," Yuri says, a reminder to Viktor, and to himself.

"Yuuri hasn't had dinner," Viktor says, "so if you wouldn't mind waiting for at least a little bit."

Yuri makes a face. He's impatient, but he wants Yuuri at his best. "Fine."

"We have extra," Viktor prods.

Yuri sighs. "Yeah, I'll take some."

Viktor beams. "Great! Go ahead inside, okay? I'll just get the delivery from downstairs and join you."

Yuri shrugs and pushes the door back open. He takes his shoes off and then—after a moment's hesitation—his coat as well.

He pokes his head into the kitchen, and there he finds Yuuri. "Viktor sent me in to help set up," he says, even though Viktor hadn't asked. Yuri would feel weird not helping, but he feels equally weird offering on his own.

Yuuri jumps, startled. "Yurio!" he says breathlessly, breaking into a smile Yuri feels in his toes. "I think we were just going with paper plates on the couch," Yuuri adds with a laugh. "But grab drinks?"

Yuri nods and heads for the fridge. He's contemplating the beer when Yuuri appears at his shoulder. "No alcohol," he says sternly. "Not tonight."

Yuri considers protesting, but then he sees the firmness of Yuuri's expression, his dark eyes, and remembers why he's here. He grabs three sodas.

They sit quietly on either side of the couch, the air—not awkward, but anticipatory. Yuri feels like he's buzzing.

Viktor comes back quickly enough. Yuri can see him from the living area, tongue wetting his lip in concentration, three plastic bags dangling precariously from his fingertips. He kicks the door closed behind him. When he catches sight of them, watching him expectantly, he grins. "Hungry?"

It's Thai, the takeout. Yuri is hungrier than he'd realized, and he devours his food in near silence, every once in a while huffing a laugh or rolling his eyes at the other two's conversation.

"You're so quiet, Yura," Viktor remarks, and Yuri flushes pink, caught.

"Thinking," he says, and Viktor looks so knowing that Yuri goes from pink to full red.

He looks down at his feet while Yuuri changes the subject to something one of the other skaters posted on twitter that day. The carpet is nice and soft, Yuri notices, digging his toes into the plush grey. He never got around to putting carpet in his apartment, just a few threadbare rugs over the old tile and hardwood. Viktor's—Viktor-and-Yuuri's—apartment is all like that: soft, lived in comfort, none of the clean but cold lines Yuri remembers from when it was just Viktor. Yuri thinks of his own apartment, with standard college dorm room furniture his grandpa had hastily picked out for him when he'd decided all of a sudden at 13 to move to St. Petersburg.

"Yuri?" Yuuri asks, and his tone says it isn't the first time he said it.

Yuri swallows. "Yeah?"

"I was saying," Yuuri offers, "if you're done, we could head out?"

"Oh," Yuri says, and his voice is flat and telling.

"If you're not finished—"

Yuri shakes his head. "I am." He starts to stand up, but then Viktor touches a hand to his knee.

"I can clear out," he offers casually, "if you'd like to stay."

Yuri hesitates. "Sure, I guess," he says, deliberately casual. "Too much effort to go back home, anyway."

Yuuri's face goes a little soft, and Yuri looks away.

Viktor kisses Yuuri quickly. "Let me get my coat, and then I'll go bother Yakov for a few hours."

This is something else Yuri hadn't expected, Viktor leaving his own home so his husband can have sex with another man. Yuri doesn't know how to feel about it.

Once Viktor's gone, Yuuri stands, stretches, and reaches out a hand to help Yuri up. He doesn't let go after, just tugs Yuri into the guest bedroom, his hand warm and dry in Yuri's. Inside, he sits on the edge of the bed, his thighs falling open a little, and Yuri thinks about sucking him off. His breath stalls in his chest.

"Okay?" Yuuri asks, and Yuri drags his eyes back up from the bit of skin between Yuuri's soft t-shirt and his sweatpants. Yuuri's smirking, and arousal flares hot in Yuri's stomach.

"I'm going to kiss you," he says, demands, shoving his way to stand between Yuuri's legs.

Yuuri tips his head back to look at him, one eyebrow arched. "Oh? Come on, then."

Yuri growls under his breath, and does.

 

Things progress quickly after that—Yuuri's shirt is the first to go, and Yuri braces his hands on his shoulders to keep his balance while he attacks Yuuri's neck, Yuuri letting out tiny, maddening moans in his ear. After a few minutes, Yuri realizes he's crawled his way into Yuuri's lap, thighs spread wide on either side of Yuuri's, and the room is too hot, so he pulls at his own shirt hem too.

"Here, let me," Yuuri says, voice rough with arousal already, and Yuri's satisfaction distracts him enough that Yuuri has to take his still hands from the shirt to replace with Yuuri's own. He peels Yuri's shirt up to expose his abdomen, his ribs. When he bends his head to follow the trail with his mouth, Yuri gasps and closes his eyes.

This isn't exactly new for him; he's fooled around with friends every once in a while, and kisses are familiar and well-loved territory for him. But the pace of this, the way he's spiraling so quickly into desperation while Yuuri's still mostly put together, while they're technically taking it slow, while they still have so much farther to go—that's new.

"D-don't," he stutters out, when Yuuri mouths over Yuri's nipple. "I don't want to—"

"Want me to slow down?" Yuuri asks, his speech vibrating fascinatingly against Yuri, and Yuri's hands form claws at his shoulders.

He bites his lip. "Nnnn," he says, uncertain.

He feels Yuuri's smile on his skin, in his very core. "Want me to take the edge off?"

Yuri's so hard he _hurts_ , but he pulls it together enough to say, "Yeah," embarrassingly breathy.

Yuuri pushes Yuri's leggings and underwear down his hips, just enough to expose his dick. "Like this?" he says slyly, licking his palm and wrapping it around Yuri.

" _Fuck_ , yes," Yuri groans, collapsing forward.

"Whoa," Yuuri laughs, steadying Yuri with his other hand at Yuri's waist. He sounds so amused, and it's _embarrassing_ and something about that makes Yuri squeeze his thighs around Yuuri's, frenzied. His face feels too warm, he feels like—like—

 _Breathe_ , he chides himself, and gulps down air, only to waste it all on a moan when Yuuri rubs his thumb over the head of Yuri's dick.

This isn't new, either. There's no reason it should be hitting him this hard, it doesn't make any _sense_.

Yuuri lets go, and Yuri presses his open mouth into the hollow of Yuuri's neck and _whines_.

"Shh," Yuuri soothes, coaxing Yuri's face out from its hiding place. His eyes are so dark behind his glasses, almost glittering. He looks smug, indulgent, and Yuri wants, suddenly, more than anything, to see him wrecked. He opens his mouth, dazed, when Yuuri puts his thumb on his lower lip, flicks his tongue out to taste himself. "Look at you," Yuuri says, awed, and Yuri presses closer, impatient.

Yuuri laughs at him _again_ , the bastard. He puts both hands on Yuri's ass and hauls him in as close as they can get, so Yuri can rock his hips up against Yuuri's abs. "Better?" Yuuri says in a low voice.

"You're an asshole," Yuri says, breath hitching as he grinds his hips forward again, again.

He tries to hide his face again, rests his forehead on Yuuri's shoulder, but Yuuri gets a hand in his hair and _pulls_ —not too hard, not enough to really hurt, but hard enough that Yuri's head goes back, throat bared.

"Keep looking at me," Yuuri says darkly.

Yuri gasps out, " _Asshole_ ," and comes against Yuuri's stomach.

"There you are," Yuuri murmurs, and tips Yuri gently to the side until he falls lightly to the mattress. He wiggles out of his remaining clothes and rolls onto his back so he can gaze up at Yuuri, heavy-lidded, his mouth still open and panting from his orgasm. "You're shivering," Yuuri notes. "Good?"

Yuri narrows his eyes at him. "Stop fishing."

Yuuri makes a face at him, childish, and Yuri's startled into a laugh—and that's when Yuuri kisses him again, licking into his open mouth, and Yuri's laugh morphs into a moan.

"Wait, wait—" he cries out.

Yuuri stills immediately, and Yuri uses his knees and thighs to flip them both over again. Yuuri lands flat on his back and bounces once, winded. "What—"

"There's something I've wanted to do," Yuri says.

Yuuri props himself up on his elbows. "Go ahead, then," he says, unfazed, and that tone, more than anything, makes Yuri clench his jaw with determination. He's going to get Yuuri to lose it, one way or another.

He slips off the bed and yanks at Yuuri's hips until he's sitting at the edge, and then Yuri drops to his knees.

"Oh?" Yuuri says, under his breath.

Yuri smooths his hands over Yuuri's thighs, thick and toned beneath his sweatpants. He inhales, and then leans in to mouth wetly over Yuuri's cloth-covered dick.

Yuuri's makes a tiny noise. "Yurio—"

"Don't call me that," Yuri snaps, jerking himself back so he can glare up at Yuuri. It's started to irritate him less recently, but right now, it just sounds _wrong_.

Yuuri bites his lip. "'Yuri' sounds odd," he says. "Like I'm mad at you." Yuri makes a face. He can't argue with that. "Yura?" Yuuri suggests, his mouth forming the vowels in a way Yuri isn't used to, and Yuri shivers.

"That works," he says, and presses his hand against Yuuri's dick, feeling the outline of it through his pants.

"Oh," Yuuri moans, and when Yuri looks up, he has his eyes closed, head tipped back. His stomach is still splattered with Yuri's come, and it makes him look all the more obscene when he swallows, visibly, his hands flexing and clenching at his sides. Yuri wonders, idly, if he could get Yuuri to pull his hair again. He decides he wants to find out.

Yuri pulls down Yuuri's sweatpants, and Yuuri obediently lifts his ankles and steps out of them, kicking them to the side. Yuri shuffles in on his knees again and contemplates Yuuri's dick. He's had this done for him before, but never done it himself. It might not be what he's here for, but hey—who says he can only try one thing at a time?

"Need some help?" Yuuri asks archly, and Yuri grits his teeth, that hot mixture of annoyance, embarrassment, and arousal swirling in his stomach again. He'd been hoping Yuuri hadn't noticed.

"Shut up," he snarls, and opens his mouth over the head of Yuuri's dick, sucking hard.

" _Fuck_ ," Yuuri cries out sharply, above him, and Yuri smirks internally.

He pulls back, inhales, and then sinks down a little further, covering his teeth with his lips. He concentrates, hard, on the weight of Yuuri in his mouth, trying to decide if he likes it or not. He thinks he does—the power trip is a little intoxicating.

Yuuri is quiet above him, which Yuri finds frankly offensive, so he goes down as far as he can—and then chokes. Yuuri groans, and then eases him back with both hands, gentle.

"Careful," he says. "Go slower."

Yuri makes a face and dives back in. He barely gets his mouth open though before there's a hand in his hair, pulling him back, brooking no argument.

"Ah," Yuri gasps, satisfaction hot in his chest.

"Slow," Yuuri says again, and this time, Yuri doesn't argue.

He takes his time on the way back down, using his hand to work what he can't get in his mouth. Yuuri keeps his hand in Yuri's hair the whole time, not guiding but reminding. Yuri's mouth won't stop watering, and he has to keep pulling back to swallow until he gets the hang of swallowing with something in his mouth. The first time he does that, he feels some spit leak from the corners of his mouth, and his face burns hot—but the punched-out groan Yuuri makes is worth it.

He only gets about two-thirds of the way down before Yuuri pulls his head back again.

"What did I do wrong?" is the first thing out of Yuri's mouth, demanding, and Yuuri's eyes widen.

"Nothing," he says, and a smile splits his face slowly. "You were good."

"Oh," Yuri says, sitting back on his heels. "Then why—"

"You were _too_ good," Yuuri says, his grin going sharp. The realization hits Yuri hard, and his hands curl convulsively around his own knees. His mouth tastes bitter with desire, or maybe that's just Yuuri.

"We're not done yet," Yuri says.

"No," Yuuri confirms, and pulls Yuri up by the shoulders into his lap again. "Messy," he chides lightly, wiping a hand over Yuri's spit-slick mouth, his chin. Yuri stares at him, his heart racing—at the knowing glint in his eyes—and then hits him on the shoulder.

"You're fucking with me," he accuses and Yuuri shrugs one shoulder and laughs.

"You like it," he says, self-assured.

Yuri bites his lip and looks away. "It surprises me," he admits.

Yuuri is silent for a moment and then he says, "Can I tell you a secret?"

Yuri looks back at him.

"It surprises me too, every time," Yuuri says, his eyes trained on the careful circles his thumb is rubbing into the skin of Yuri's hip. "How easily it comes."

"Is this how you are with Vitya, too?" Yuri asks, and then wants to kick himself when Yuuri's eyes shoot upward, surprised.

"Yes," he says, and then smiles. "Being embarrassed doesn't turn him on, though."

"Ugh," Yuri groans, his cheeks burning.

"Really though," Yuuri says. "Every time it comes so easily, and then when I'm done, I'm a mess of anxiety all over again. Only worse, because everything I've done while—ah, _under the influence_ is replaying in my head and embarrassing me and." He laughs, wry. "And I _really_ don't get off on that."

He shakes himself. "So. Let's enjoy it while it lasts, okay?"

Yuri knows he's just talking about his own self-confidence, but he feels it anyway. _Enjoy it while it lasts_ : what he's been telling himself since they started this. He doesn't think this'll make things awkward between the two of them—the three of them really, counting Viktor. But any more than once would be _weird_ , given how much time they all spend together. It's asking for trouble.

"Let's make the most of it," he agrees, resolute, and Yuuri grins at him, infectious, intoxicating.

"How do you want to do this, then?" Yuuri asks, his hands still warm and present on Yuri's hips, sliding up to his waist and back.

"What?" Yuri asks, distracted by the sensation. He can feel the goosebumps rise in the wake of Yuuri's touch.

Yuuri huffs out a laugh. "Want to stay on top? You can set the pace however you like. Or—" He tightens his grip on Yuri's waist and raises an eyebrow. "I can put you under me."

Yuri chews on his lip. He wants to see Yuuri's face when he's fucking Yuri, but. Having Yuuri's weight on top of him, pinning him—that sounds...good. And he doesn't want to be responsible for moving; he wants to be able to focus on cataloguing every sensation as and when it happens, so that if it never happens with Yuuri again, as he expects, he'll always at least remember this.

"On my back?" he suggests, and Yuuri's eyes glint in approval.

He flips Yuri onto his back and then inspects him carefully, and Yuri stretches under the attention, catlike, showing off.

"Stop stalling and get on with it, Katsudon," he challenges, and Yuuri rolls his eyes and gets off the bed. "Hey, where are you going?"

"Lube, Yura," Yuuri says from the adjoining bathroom, where he's rummaging through the cupboard. "And condoms. I forgot, because we—" _Viktor and I_ "—keep them in the nightstand, but the guest room isn't so..." He pokes his head out to smile at Yuuri, crooked. "Well-stocked."

"Haven't you done this before, though?" Yuri asks, meaning having, fucking someone else in this bed.

"Not here, usually," Yuuri replies. He comes back into the room and leans in the doorway, unreadable. "This is only really something we do at competitions. Or," and here he laughs, "once, the two of us slept with—ah, nevermind, it's not important. But that we did in the master."

Unbidden, Yuri feels a flash of envy for whoever else Yuuri and Viktor took into their home, who they probably wined and dined and then took into their own bed. He didn't even think he wanted it, still doesn't even know if he wants Viktor in that way. But he feels possessive of this place, this home that isn't even his. He doesn't want anyone else to be in parts of it he hasn't.

Yuuri's watching him. "Are you okay?"

"Are you going to stand there all night?" Yuri fires back, ignoring the unpleasant clench in his gut.

Yuuri sighs and then climbs back into the bed. "Someone should teach you some patience," he mutters.

 _You could_ , Yuri's brain thinks without his consent, and he huffs, frustrated.

"Patience is for losers," he says, a weak, terrible comeback, telling in its lukewarmness, but Yuuri doesn't seem to notice.

"Have you done this before?" Yuuri asks, lubing up his fingers fastidiously.

"To myself? Obviously," Yuri says.

Yuuri tilts his head curiously. "Never with anyone else?"

Yuri looks up at the ceiling. "Today's a day for trying new things," he says, the same thing he'd told himself while blowing Yuuri, "right?"

Yuuri hums agreement and then says, "Relax, okay? I'll take care of you."

That makes Yuri lose his breath, and he's distracted enough that the first cool touch to his asshole comes as a surprise. "Ah," he says, sharp.

"Relax, Yura," Yuuri reminds him in a low voice, circling around his entrance slowly, lightly. It almost feels like it tickles but Yuri's not laughing. He's felt oversensitized since he came, and the little touches are the worst kind of tease.

"Put it in," he growls.

Yuuri raises an eyebrow, shrugs a shoulder, and then does. It goes in easy, but then again, Yuuri's fingers are slim. They're long, though, a detail that Yuri had already noticed and furtively filed away, and which comes to his mind now when Yuuri's finger is all the way in him. _Inside_ him.

"Okay?" Yuuri asks, voice low.

"Yeah," Yuri responds, breathless. He can't be bothered to be bratty right now.

"You're so tight," Yuuri marvels, and Yuri clenches unconsciously, heart rate kicking into high gear. Yuuri sucks in a breath. "I'll have to spend some time stretching you out, hm?"

Yuri closes his eyes, pained. It sounds like torture. "Can't you just—" He makes a vague, obscene hand movement that he hopes conveys _Fuck me already, I'm ready_ without revealing the sheer magnitude of his want.

"Sorry," Yuuri says, unsympathetic. He draws his finger out and then works it back in, lower lip sucked between his teeth in concentration. Yuri squirms. "I wonder—"

He bends his finger a little and brushes over Yuri's prostate, and Yuri twitches.

"Shit," he says, startled even though he'd half-expected it. Yuuri does it again and then _again_ , little sharp, shocks of sensation that it takes Yuri a confused second to realize are pleasurable. The confusion doesn't last long though, and soon he's arching up into it, thighs taut and trembling faintly, while Yuuri keeps rubbing over and over, intent and relentless, his eyes hard and affectionate at once. " _Shit_ ," Yuri says again, his dick hard again and leaking against his stomach.

He flattens one hand to his abdomen urgently, as if by doing so he can contain himself, when he knows it would only take four, maybe five more crooks of Yuuri's deft finger before he's spilling over. The back of Yuri's other hand is pressed against his open mouth, so he can at least make some semblance of hiding the filthy, wanting moans he can't help but let out.

Yuuri is smirking, and he looks perfectly composed, even though by now his hair is stuck to his temples, his neck, and his glasses are smudged. "How does that feel?" he asks solicitously, and Yuri hisses at him.

"You fucking ashhole," he spits, and Yuuri makes a sad face at him and slides in another finger. He must add more lube because it's so easy Yuri almost misses it.

"Better?" Yuuri asks, cheeky, and Yuri thinks seriously for a moment about kneeing him in the stomach—but then Yuuri stretches his fingers inside of him, slow, indulgent, and Yuri whimpers and that's it, he can't stand it anymore.

"Put your cock in me," he tries to yell, but it comes out weak and thready. Embarrassed, desperate, he turns his face into the sweat-soaked sheets. His knees close automatically around Yuuri's forearm, like they want Yuri to keep him inside forever.

Yuuri sighs and pries his legs back open gently. "My fingers aren't very thick," he says, serious for the moment. "And I'm not taking any chances with your first time. Besides," he adds, "it'll do you some good to wait. Learn some patience."

"Okay, but if I die of stress before ever getting fucked, that's on you," Yuri mutters into the sheets, and Yuuri rolls his eyes.

"You're such a teenager," he says, and puts in a third finger.

"Oh, there," Yuri moans, muffled by cotton, his eyes falling shut without his consent. Three has be enough, he thinks, even for someone as apparently sadistically patient as Katsuki Yuuri. He knows Yuuri has to be laughing at him again, but he's officially reached the point where he doesn't give a fuck. He just wants, he _wants_.

"All right," Yuuri says, after less than a minute, and pulls out his fingers. Yuri wonders if he's getting impatient too; he's shown no signs of it so far.

Then the feeling of emptiness catches up to Yuri, jarring in its intensity, and he clenches down on nothing. It feels weird, to be so slick and loose, and still have every other muscle in his body so taut with anticipation. He makes a disgusted noise, and Yuuri smiles.

"Soon," he says, and rips open the condom he left by his hip.

"I thought about making you do this," Yuuri says as he rolls it on efficiently. "But to be honest, I don't think you'd remember anything I showed you right now. You're too far gone."

And Yuri, peering up at him from one eye, can't argue with that, except—

"I know how to put a fucking condom on," he snaps. He did his research, and he doesn't do things by halves.

Yuuri laughs. "I also kind of expected that." Yuri blinks, and feels a warm, involuntary rush of satisfaction. Yuuri pours more lube into his hand and slicks himself up, and then he's looking at Yuri, expectant. "Ready?"

Yuri glares at him and uncurls so he's firmly on his back. He reaches down and grips his own thighs just above the knees, the muscle tight and slippery under his fingers, and pulls them up to his chest.

"There you go," Yuuri says, appreciative. "Put that ballet training to good use."

Yuri glares harder and stretches until his legs are straight over his head, feet arched and toes pointed gracefully.

"Very nice," Yuuri says, and leans in to kiss him. He braces his hands on Yuri's thighs, grinding up against him. "Tell me you're ready, Yura."

"I will kick you in the face," Yuri says.

Yuuri snorts and takes one hand off to grasp his own cock, lining himself up. "Relax," he says preemptively, and pushes the head in.

Predictably, Yuri tightens up immediately. "Oh," he breathes, inanely, his fingers digging into the meat of his thighs. 

" _Relax_ ," Yuuri repeats, and pushes in a little more.

It doesn't hurt, with the amount of time Yuuri spent stretching him out, but it feels like _so much_ —Yuri's sensitive, from being on the edge so long, from having already come once, from being young. He imagines he can feel every millimeter of Yuuri's cock going into him, and he _wants it_.

"Give me _more_ ," he demands, and Yuuri pulls out a little, and then pushes back in smoothly, until Yuri's taken him about halfway deep.

Yuri throws back his head and pants, staring up at the ceiling and trying to gain some composure—but there's none to be had. "Does it always feel like this?" he asks dizzily, and Yuuri laughs at him, choked from the effort of holding himself back. Yuri counts that as a point for himself. He catalogues the way Yuuri's holding his hips just short of actually tight, and wonders if he can get Yuuri to grip hard enough to bruise.

Yuuri pulls back an inch again and thrusts forward, and then repeats, until he's all the way in. "How's that?" he asks, leaning in until Yuri can feel the rapid puffs of his breath on his cheek.

"I feel like I'm burning up," Yuri says honestly.

"Is it what you wanted?"

Yuri realizes his knees have folded a little, his feet dropping from above his head. He hastily straightens his legs again, like he's proving a point. "I don't know yet," he says, coolly, or as coolly as he can, when his voice catches halfway in his throat and fizzles out into a groan, "you've barely done anything."

Yuuri huffs and pulls out, slamming back in.

"Oh, fuck," Yuri cries out, losing his grip on his legs. They drop, almost hitting Yuuri in the face, and Yuri swears, grabbing at his disobedient limbs again, but his hands won't grip securely enough. They're trembling finely, and Yuuri eyes them pointedly as he picks up Yuri's legs and pushes them flat against his chest.

"Hold them up," he says, "if you think you can." And then he's fucking Yuri properly, not fast but with intent, deep and solid thrusts that make Yuri unable to fill his lungs completely. His head is swimming from it.

 _Of course I can hold them up_ , Yuri tries to say, but all he gets out is "O—" before Yuuri fucks in at an angle that makes him moan, high and shocked.

Yuuri smirks, and shoves in again at the same angle, only harder. Yuri tosses his head to the side, his hair finally escaping its ponytail entirely and falling across his face, fanning over the sheets. His dick is red and aching to be touched, but right now, his whole body feels the same. Yuuri has a tight, unmoving grip on his hips, far from his dick, but Yuri feels like if he touched any other part of Yuri for too long—his lips, his nipples, his waist—then that would be it, Yuri would be coming. He can't decide whether he should be trying to prevent that or not.

The decision gets taken out of his hands, though, when Yuuri leans down to kiss him, a position which puts his stomach directly in contact with the painfully sensitive head of Yuuri's dick. That, and the following touch of Yuuri's teeth to his throat with nearly surgical precision, right where his t-shirt collar will rub against it, and—

"Shit, I'm—" Yuri says, and Yuuri's head comes up immediately, like he's been waiting.

"Hang on," he says, and then he really starts fucking Yuri.

Yuri comes with a sharp cry, splattering the remnants of his previous orgasm on his and Yuuri's abs, tightening around Yuuri's cock again and again. His left leg slips from his chest, and Yuri's shaking too hard to get it back up, so he wraps it around Yuuri's waist and clings.

"Tell me if this hurts and I'll stop," Yuuri says, because he's still fucking Yuri, he hasn't come yet.

Yuri shakes his head because he knows what kind of hurt Yuuri means, and this isn't it. This is the kind of shivery, sparkling oversensitivity you get when you've done your hardest jump in the program and your adrenaline rush is two seconds from crashing, but you have to keep skating until you're done. And they're not done.

"It's good," Yuri croaks, because the sensation is _too much_ , but the kind that fires in the pleasure centers of his brain.

"Good," Yuuri responds, or echoes, but he seems to understand because he draws Yuri's left leg tighter around his waist, and brings the right up farther to hook over his shoulder. The position gives him the angle and leverage to go even deeper than before, and Yuri's hands are flying up to his mouth before he notices, trying to contain the embarrassing, overstimulated whimpers coming out of his mouth.

"Your face is really red," Yuuri says wickedly, through the rough moans he lets out on every thrust. "You look cute."

Yuri stares up at him, and then whines, shutting his eyes tight. His body is wound up tight, looking for a release it thought it already got, and Yuri curls onto his side to try to escape it, the enormity of the unknown feeling building inside him.

"Your ears, too," Yuuri says relentlessly, and he brings up one hand to the nape of Yuuri's neck. For a moment, Yuri thinks he's going to grip it and push Yuri's face into the sheets, an intrusive thought—and the image makes his gut clench, spent cock twitching between his thighs.

"Don't," he whines, turning his face fully into the mattress, and Yuuri slows.

"Do you need me to stop?" he asks, even though Yuri knows he's close, even though it would be so easy for him to keep going.

Yuri tightens his fingers helplessly in the sheets. "No," he says. "I want you to come."

Yuuri's hips jerk at that, helpless. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, you idiot," Yuri snaps, exhaustion creeping into his limbs, but he still has something he wants and he's not resting till he gets it.

"Fine," Yuuri says, and buries his face in Yuri's shoulder while his hips start moving sharper, faster. He's not aiming for Yuri's prostate anymore, which is a blessing, but Yuri's sensitive enough that it still makes him shake, mouth open on a soundless cry. He thinks he feels wetness spring at the corners of his eyes, and sucks in a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut again.

When he comes, Yuuri bites Yuri's shoulder, and his hands dig into Yuri's thigh, bruising, and it's perfect. It's everything Yuri wanted.

 

Yuri almost falls asleep after, exhaustion hitting him like a tidal wave and sucking him in. Yuuri goes to the bathroom to throw away the condom and comes back with a wet washcloth, which he uses to gently wipe Yuri's face, and then the come from his stomach and thighs. He wipes himself off last, and then throws the cloth on the bathroom floor.

Yuri half expects him to leave then, but instead Yuuri turns off all the lights but one lamp, shifts Yuri under the sheets, and then crawls in after him.

Yuri's chest feels tight. He wasn't prepared for this. "You can go," he attempts. "I'll be fine. Not like I've never slept in here by myself, before."

"The full experience means cuddling too, Yura," Yuuri shuts him down easily, throwing an arm around Yuri's waist and tucking his head into the curve of Yuri's neck.

"Shouldn't you be in your own bed?" Yuri asks. "With your husband?" He realizes he's tracing an idle pattern over Yuuri's shoulder-blade with his fingers, and forces himself to stop.

"Viktor's not home yet," Yuuri answers. "But we can move there if we like?"

Yuri looks away. "The sheets here are messy," he grumbles.

"Spoiled," Yuuri chides, but he obligingly rolls out of bed. He offers a hand to Yuri. "Need me to carry you?" he asks, cheeky.

Yuri rolls his eyes and ignores him, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He gathers his bearings and then stands up on shaky thighs, wincing at the soreness between them.

"Sorry," Yuuri says, and Yuri shoots him a quelling look.

"I asked for it, didn't I?"

"Yeah, I guess," Yuuri says. He reaches out to steady Yuri with a hand to his waist. They go into the hallway, and are almost to Viktor-and-Yuuri's room when Yuuri continues, hesitant, "Was it what you wanted?"

He doesn't sound smug, or like he's fishing. He sounds unsure, worried. Yuri remembers what he said before, about his anxiety catching up to him. It forces Yuri into honesty.

"It was exactly what I needed," he says, and is rewarded by the way Yuuri's face lights up with a grin.

Yuuri sits him in the center of their bed, on cool gunmetal silk sheets that scream of Viktor's particular brand of ostentatiousness. The texture feels weird against Yuri's bare skin; he's never slept naked before.

As if reading his mind, Yuuri turns to the wardrobe in the corner. "Want to borrow some clothes?" he asks over his shoulder.

The novelty of it is wearing off, and now Yuri's just cold. "Yeah, sure."

Yuuri pulls out a couple of things and tosses them in Yuri's direction. Yuri catches them out of the air and turns them over in his hands to look. A pair of tiny sleep shorts that have to be Yuuri's. A stretched-out, well-loved t-shirt with some brand name on it, that Yuri vaguely recognizes from a commercial Viktor did years ago. Yuri hadn't met him yet, but it played during, like, every other commercial break during the 2010 Winter Olympics. Yuri can still remember the stupid pop music in the background, and the white flash of Viktor's smile. The shirt is so soft.

 _I shouldn't be here_ , Yuri thinks, his heart suddenly slamming behind his ribs. He doesn't belong here.

His face must show something, because Yuuri's smile falters when he looks at him again. "Is this not okay?" Yuuri asks, hands nervously twisting the shirt in his hands. "I—I can go change the sheets in the guest room, and you can sleep there, if you're more comfortable."

If _Yuri_ is more comfortable?

"What about Viktor?" Yuri asks, and Yuuri's face clears.

"Oh," he says, "this was his idea, actually. He says you've shared a bed before?"

They have, but not in years. It was just once, when all of Yakov's skaters got together at Viktor's old place for a party, and at the end of the night, it was too late for Yuri to go back home alone. Yuri had slept on the other side of Viktor's giant-ass bed, a pillow wedged between the two of them because Yuri didn't want to be seen cuddling with a living legend. In the morning, Viktor had woken him up with pancakes—blueberry, Yuri's favorite.

 _This is the stupidest thing you've ever done_ , Yuri says to himself, but he puts on the clothes.

Yuuri turns out the lights and takes off his glasses, then slides in next to him, their backs pressed together warmly. "Goodnight, Yura," he says.

Yuri grunts in response, and closes his eyes.

 

He's not sure what wakes him up, but when he blinks his eyes open, it's morning. The light filtering through the curtains tells Yuri it's still early, and he's about to close his eyes, when he realizes there's an arm around his waist, and he's being spooned.

"Sorry," Viktor says, "did I wake you?"

The space on the bed in front of Yuri is empty, and cold. "Yuuri," he says hoarsely, and clears his throat.

Viktor huffs, and it tickles the back of Yuri's neck. Yuri shivers. "Yeah," Viktor says. "I think he's freaking out."

Yuri's stomach drops. "Why would he—"

"Don't worry about it," Viktor says, squeezing Yuri's middle reassuringly. "I'll take care of it."

Yuri feels a light touch against his shoulder, and it isn't until after Viktor rolls out of bed that he realizes it was a kiss.

Not knowing what else to do, he goes back to sleep.

 

He wakes up again probably an hour later, wide awake. He's alone in the bed, and he can smell something cooking.

Slowly, Yuri gets out of bed and wanders into the bathroom. He steals one of Yuuri's hairbands to tie his hair into a small bun, and then washes his face. The face wash smells like both of them. There's also a toothbrush with a pink sticky note attached to it that says _Yuri_ , so he shrugs and brushes his teeth, too.

He finds that either Viktor or Yuuri brought his phone into the bedroom and left it on the nightstand, so he looks at his notifications. Nothing urgent—a couple snapchats from Otabek, a voicemail from his grandpa asking when he's going to visit next—nothing that he can waste a little time on. Yuri sighs, nervousness making his stomach churn.

Leaving the room, he's not sure what to expect. He follows the sound of murmured conversation—it doesn't sound like anyone's arguing? maybe that's a good sign—down the hall to the kitchen, which makes sense with the food smells in the air. Yuri wonders who's cooking.

When he enters the kitchen and stands in the doorway, the first thing he thinks is _Oh, pancakes_. And then he sees them.

Viktor's standing at the stove, facing away from Yuri, trying to cook. Yuuri's leaning up against the counter a foot away, his hand on the small of Viktor's back. They're talking about something, and Yuri can't hear from here. But from the sly, intent look on Yuuri's face, the redness of the back of Viktor's neck and ears—Yuri has a feeling it's about him. _We always talk about it after_ , Yuuri had said, and Yuri feels irritation swell in him, acrid. They could have at least waited until he'd left.

"I'm fucking starving," he says, over-loud, and they startle, but don't move away from each other.

"Yura!" Viktor says, beaming wide. "I'm making pancakes."

Yuuri just looks at Yuri, wide-eyed and nervous. What does he have to be nervous about? It's his home.

Maybe that's what prompts Yuri to say, "What were you talking about?" Pointedly, because he knows.

Except then Viktor _blushes_ , and looks at Yuuri for direction.

Yuuri fidgets with the hem of his shirt. "Come sit down and eat, and you can find out?"

Yuri swallows. There's a barstool at the corner of the kitchen island that he always uses when he's over, and his hand clenches tight on the back of it now. "Do you do this with everyone you sleep with?"

Yuuri smiles softly and shrugs one shoulder. "We broke protocol with you pretty much as soon as we started."

And that's—that's good, to hear. Yuri feels something inside of him settle, and his anger deflates. "Oh."

"Sit down," Viktor says. "I made blueberry, just for you."

Yuri pulls the barstool out and sits, propping his chin up on his hand. "So?" he asks, and revels in the way Yuuri's eyes darken, the way Viktor's spine straightens in anticipation. "Talk, then."

Maybe he can try a few more things with them, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter as @peakcaps and tumblr as @pageleaf!


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